


The Hitchhiker's Guide to Sherlock Holmes

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 42 is the answer, 42 millimeters is 1.7 inches and that's when flaccid okay?, Dirty Talk, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Small Dick Fics, Small Penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: “Really? How big is it?” Sherlock’s face is as still as marble, but his eyes are alive. Electric. And then, something unexpected happens. His tongue appears between his lips, and licks over the upper curve of his mouth.John holds up a thumb, as if he were hitchhiking.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 74
Collections: SmallDickFics





	The Hitchhiker's Guide to Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> The muse wants what they want. And apparently, this muse wanted more small dick John. 
> 
> Thanks to TheSoupDragon for making sure I crossed my t's and dotted my i's. X-D
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!

“Really? How big is it?” Sherlock’s face is as still as marble, but his eyes are alive. Electric. And then, something unexpected happens. His tongue appears between his lips, and licks over the upper curve of his mouth.

John holds up a thumb, as if he were hitchhiking.

* * *

Size never mattered, though. What matters more to Sherlock is knowledge: knowing all of John’s intimate places and measurements, no matter what they are. John’s sure Sherlock’s got all the information saved somewhere in his Mind Palace, like a collector of rare maps, encased in glass and never exposed to sunlight. 

That makes John special. 

The size thing isn’t a thing at all, because just as Sherlock knows John so intimately, so John knows Sherlock intimately. His sensitive spots. His kinks. If John stretches up, mouths and licks the back of Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock melts like butter into John’s arms, except for his cock. His cock will stiffen, and his hips will give small, abortive thrusts into the air. If John moves around his neck to that soft, warm spot behind his ear, Sherlock moans, and then  _ whines. _ It isn’t long before he’s begging - not just once, but twice - and John can manhandle him into the bedroom. Or onto the sofa. Or over the kitchen table. 

At other times, the key is to wait until Sherlock wants attention - wants to be petted and wants to please John. When Sherlock approaches him on the sofa first, cat-like and sensual, John knows that’s the signal. He starts by pretending not to notice. Sherlock will stretch and place his head at John’s hip. After a moment of grumbles, followed by a torpid roll of his hips and a suggestive look his way, John knows it’s time. He’ll start by sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, carefully, so as to not tangle them. Instead, he’ll give soft, long tugs, and listen as Sherlock releases breathy moans. Sherlock’s dressing gown will fall open, and John will watch from the corner of his eye as the bulge in Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms grows. It isn’t long before John will tell him, “Get on your knees.”

Because that’s another thing Sherlock likes. He won’t admit it aloud, and he’d deny it if John ever told anyone, but Sherlock likes it when John tells him what to do. Likes it even better when John will talk dirty to him.

“Undo my zip, and take my cock out.” And Sherlock, panting and languorous, will work John’s trousers open with those nimble fingers of his, wait while John lifts his hips so Sherlock can pull John’s trousers and pants down to his ankles. That tongue will appear again, stroking over the bow shape of his mouth, as those eyes zero in on John’s cock. 

“Lick it.”

Sherlock does everything as he’s told. Laps the tip of John’s dick, like an insect tasting nectar, and he’ll groan when John grabs his head and fucks his mouth. As much as Sherlock likes to lead them on investigations and into new areas of trouble and intrigue, it’s here that John leads.

“Now, suck it. Oh yeah, just like that. Mmm. Use your tongue. Jesus.” John’ll let his head fall on the back of the sofa, and Sherlock will suck him for all he’s worth, spiraling his tongue over the weeping cockhead, and fondling John’s balls. “Yeah, you love that, don’t you? Having cock in your mouth, servicing me. I oughta keep you like this all the time. Get home from a case and have me write it on the blog with you between my thighs, keeping my cock warm.”

Sherlock will moan and his lashes will flutter. His hand will slide into the front of his pyjamas, and John’ll stop him with the nudge of his foot. “Not yet,” he’ll say. “Not yet.” Sherlock will whimper and renew his sucking on John’s cock with gusto. 

If it’s not neck-nuzzling or sofa suckling, it might be post-case hustling. John will shove Sherlock up against the wall after locking the door behind them. He’ll speak gruffly. “Take your trousers off.” Sherlock will obey, his breath hitching, and his hands trembling as he peels himself out of those bespoke bottoms that hug his sumptuous arse in all the right places. 

It’s a fucking glorious arse. Pale as marble, hard, muscles clenching as John makes him part his feet and lean forward, bracing his arms against the wall. His cock will jut out from his body, rosy-tipped and wet. John’ll kneel behind him, order him to keep still. “Good boy,” he’ll say. “Stay still.” And he’ll part those plush cheeks with his hands and blow on the wrinkled pucker nestled there. A tremor will run through Sherlock’s body when John leans forward and licks, tastes, fucks with his tongue, and sucks. 

Sherlock, when he’s like this, is nothing but obedient. When he’s barely able to stand any longer, John will usher him into the bedroom and make him lay face down on the bed. As malleable as warm putty, John will arrange him to his liking, and sit between his thighs. He’ll continue his administrations with his tongue, Sherlock writhing and sighing below him. When John’s actions finally bring a litany of swear words to Sherlock’s speech, John will grab Sherlock’s cock, and tug the full length of it until he brings Sherlock off, his usual baritone hitting the high notes as he cries out his pleasure.

* * *

But some of the best nights are when John’s tired. A little grumpy. Preoccupied with one issue or another. Because then Sherlock will come to him, quiet and sure. He’ll massage John’s shoulders, spending a little extra time on the bad one. He’ll rub his fingers into John’s spine, pet him down his sides, and lay him out on the bed, where he’ll kiss him on all his crests and in all of his crevices. He’ll bring him off with a gentle blowjob, and then settle in beside him, speaking soft words of love he never admits outside of the darkness.

Then he’ll ask, “Was it good?”

And John will raise one thumb, as if he were hitchhiking. 


End file.
